Speak To My Grave
by MintoKitsune
Summary: John can't stop visiting Sherlock's grave, and things go to shit. Post-Reichenbach.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK.  
**

* * *

It was a chilly day. Not terribly dreadful or freezing, but it was dreary. The scent of rain was surrounding the London area.

To Doctor John Watson, that fit his mood completely. His landlady, Mrs. Hudson, had just left him to his own devices. In front of him was a grave. The grave of Sherlock Holmes.

He wasn't aware of the slight breeze that ruffled his cropped hair, or the way goosebumps rose on his arms, despite his warm jacket.

Quickly, he took a deep breath. "You told me once that you weren't a hero." He started, staring at the bolded letters that spelled out his best friend's name. "There were times when I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human..." He gulped, struggling to find his words. "Human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. And so... there."

Quickly, he let out a shaky breath he didn't know he was holding. He had to get this out.

"I was so alone and I owe you so much." He paused again. "Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me."

The tears began to well up into his eyes as he struggled to pull together his next words. "Don't... be..."

He could feel his emotions choking him, and it felt like ages before he muttered, "Dead..." in an octave higher than his usual.

He pressed his lips together tightly and held back a sob, as his voice strained to stay strong.

"Would you do that, just for me? Just stop... just stop this..." Finally, he was incapable of speech, and stood silently, so he could gather himself. He gulped back a clump in his throat, clenched his fists, and bit back more tears before he turned back. Quickly, before he decided he would never leave, he stalked away.

A couple graves away, Sherlock Holmes stood. No emotion showed on his bruised face as he watched John walk away.

He stood there for about an hour.

His hair hadn't been brushed for days. The usual wild curls were greasy and unruly. His eyes had black shadows underneath them, and there was a hint of dried blood hidden near his ear. The longer he stood there, the more it was evident that though he had been previously harmed physically, his emotional pain was much more intense.

After he tightened his scarf mechanically, he approached his own grave. Step by step his face grew contorted. Eventually, by the time he had reached the grave, his face was showing an emotion he wasn't quite used to. One he wasn't used to showing.

It was sorrow, and it was the most he had shown in his entire life. He hadn't shown this much when his mum died, or when Mycroft had deserted him years ago, when he needed him the most. He hadn't shown this much sorrow when Irene Adler was presumably dead.

Kneeling down, he touched his grave stone. "I'm not dead." He muttered, resting his head on the granite, so his face would be hidden from view. His hair fell over his eyes, and only from a certain angle would his quivering lips be seen. "John, I'm not dead." He said again, a bit louder. His voice shook and he took a gulp. He had never felt this speechless before. Not even when he was giving John his note was he at a loss for words. Yet, seeing him so exposed, unlike the tough soldier he usually was... it hurt more than he would have thought.

He could hear the words echoing through his head before he could stop them. 'Caring is not an Advantage.'

"Too right you are, Mycroft." He murmured, burying his head in his hands. The smell of death lingered on his fingertips, making him chuckle cruelly.

He adjusted his position and took notice of the fresh dirt underneath his feet. If he hadn't attended his own funeral a couple days ago, if he hadn't known what he did, he probably would have been able to deduce the exact day that the coffin was put into the ground, and that it was, in fact, empty.

His mind began to wander, and the more he dwelled on it, the worse his mind became. He had to quickly stand up and walk away before he drove himself insane.

* * *

John had told Mrs. Hudson to go on ahead, so he could walk around London wistfully. When he returned to his flat, he immediately regretted it.

When he was constantly chasing after Sherlock, he had picked up a few skills of deducing, and he knew right away that someone had walked into his flat. The door had been left ajar slightly, and the lingering smell was familiar, but not in a way that would be recognized immediately.

There was a rustling in Sherlock's room to show that they were still there. John inched forward slowly, grabbing his gun from the drawer as he passed it. Then, as silently as possible, he stepped closer to the door and listened.

He heard a violin being plucked quietly and for a moment his heart soared. Then he heard a string break, and a light curse that did not match the deep voice of his best friend.

In less than a second, the door slammed open and John was holding a gun to Mycroft's head.

In pure rage, John couldn't tell who it was. Not at first, at least. "Who are you and what do you want?" He growled.

Mycroft gently set the broken violin on his brother's bed and raised his arms to show he was unarmed. "John..."

"Answer my question!" John shouted, shoving the gun into Mycroft's temple. Mycroft flinched and kept his mouth shut, waiting.

Soon, realization dawned on John's face. It wasn't long before that soon turned to fury. "This is all your fault." He spat, venom in his voice.

Mycroft tried to speak, but John stepped forward, pressing his gun as hard as he could against Mycroft's face. "Don't! Don't try to deny it! This is all YOUR FAULT! If you hadn't given Moriarty that information, he would _still be alive_! _You_ deserve to be dead! Not _him_!" He cocked the gun and pushed his face as close as it would go, with him still being capable of shooting.

For a second they stared at each other, before Mycroft lowered his head in shame. "I know..." He murmured. "I know, I do. I wouldn't blame you if you pulled the trigger right now." He looked into John's eyes, which had once been fierce. Now they were forming doubt. He took this as an opportunity to continue.

"Sherlock is my brother, John. Despite what you may think, I loved him."

John narrowed his eyes again. "Then why did you-"

"You wouldn't understand!" Mycroft interrupted. "Where do you think he got his emotion from? His lack of caring for anyone and everyone, with few exceptions? I used to tell him that caring wasn't an advantage. I only now realized how wrong I was.

"I lost my _brother_, John. Don't you think I regret my choices far more than you hate them? Don't you think I wish I had been in his place instead?"

He paused and looked John in the eyes. For the first time in his life, he was showing someone else just how much he cared for his brother. He was letting his true and full emotions out in the open.

John knew he couldn't kill Mycroft. Sherlock wouldn't have wanted it, and Mycroft didn't deserve it. He had no idea what he was getting into when he let all those secrets loose. At the time, it had probably seemed innocent. How could he have suspected that Moriarty would use it against Sherlock like this?

He began to lower his gun.

"Kill me."

The demand stopped John in his tracks and he felt a shiver run up his spine. "Wh-wha-" He was at a loss for words. Mycroft's serious expression showed that he wasn't joking around, nor trying to fool John.

"Kill me. I deserve to be dead. You said it yourself."

Still, John couldn't do it. Now he didn't hesitate to uncock his gun, dismantle it, and toss it on the bed. This way Mycroft wouldn't be able to use it and kill himself, if he wanted to. "Get out." He growled, pointing towards the door.

Mycroft stared at John for a moment in disbelief, but John wasn't going to relent. "_GET OUT_!" He shouted, reaching for the closest thing to him.

His hand came in contact with a long wooden handle and he wielded it tightly in his hands. He raised it above his head and slammed it as hard as he could on the ground. Whatever it was, splintered and broke, but John was still glowering at Mycroft, who was now walking away as swiftly as his feet would allow.

John held tightly to the item in his hand, refusing to move until he heard the click of the door downstairs. Then he took in his surroundings.

For the most part, the room had been the exact same as it had been when Sherlock was alive, except for the dust settling on things, the gun on the bed, and the violin.

The violin was destroyed.

He collapsed, pulling the instrument close to him. Instantly, the tears came.

John hadn't cried in over a year. He didn't cry in Afghanistan when his friends had died, or when he got shot. Nor did he cry when he saw Sherlock fall from Barts. He had barely held back his tears at Sherlock's grave, and now here he was, in Sherlock's empty room, bawling like a child.

Many thoughts passed through his head, but none of them were about his dignity or strength. They were only about the pain he had gone through in the past week. He thought about Sherlock and nothing else, and he cried more than he had ever cried in his life.

* * *

**Author's Note: I plan on this fic being long with actual chapters and I'm going to continue it. I hope you guys like and I would appreciate all the reviews I can get. The second chapter should be up before the week is out.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock!**

* * *

A few days after his breakdown, John went to get the violin fixed. He knew Sherlock would never get the chance to play it again, but his grief and guilt were too much to bear. He wanted everything to go back to the way it was, and that included the violin being fixed.

He walked into the shop, the pieces in his bag. He approached the counter, waiting behind a teenage girl, who was buying her own instrument. Judging by her spiky blue hair and multiple piercings, he guessed it was an electric guitar.

When it was finally his turn, he took a step forward. The man at the counter, whose body was covered in tattoo's and piercings, raised his eyebrow, but John pretended not to care. "May I help you?" He asked, his voice gruff, watching as John laid the bag on the counter.

"Uhm, I was wondering how much this would cost to get fixed." John replied, opening his back. Instantly the boy at the counter widened his eyes.

"Woah. Hold on, I'll go get my manager."

John nodded and watched as the boy stepped away to get someone who knew what they were doing. When he returned an older, more refined man was with him.

"May I see the instrument, sir?" He asked after he guided John to a secluded table. John nodded and carefully dumped the contents on the table. For a minute, the man studied the violin, a grave look on his face. He cleared his throat, "Uhm.. Sir. It would be much cheaper to buy a new one..." He said, gesturing to their wide variety of violins.

John shook his head. "No, I can't just buy a new one. This one is... special to me. Can it be fixed?"

The man nodded, pulling out a notepad and a calculator. John watched as he calculated the cost it would take. When the man got the total price, he sighed and looked up at John. "What's the verdict?" John asked.

"Sir, there was an extensive damage to the fingerboard, and all of the strings need to be replaced. I couldn't pay this with my yearly salary. Are you sure you don't want to just buy a new one? It'd be much, much cheaper."

John nodded, "I should have just enough saved." He said, watching as the notepad was slid towards him. His lips tightened and he nodded. He was going to be stuck eating noodles for a long time.

* * *

The man told John that the repairs would take some time, and that he would call when they were done. He also told him that they would deliver it to John's house, since he was such a wonderful customer.

This made John feel much better, but now he found himself with nothing else to do for the rest of the day. As a sudden decision, he decided to walk around and he found himself wandering towards the cemetery.

He didn't realize where he was until he was standing right in front of the grave.

He sighed. "Even dead you still drive me crazy." He muttered, sitting down to rest his legs. His hand reached forward to touch the gravestone. "Sherlock... I'm not okay, you know. I don't think I'll be okay for a long time." He sighed again and let that sink in.

"Yesterday, a reporter called. They wanted to interview me about you. I didn't answer the phone. I haven't answered the phone since... Well, it's still all over the papers anyways. 'Robin Grieves Over Fake.' They say. Or, 'Holmes Fans In Denial.' The Tabloids are terrible..." He let out a dark chuckle before he ran his fingers through his hair. An absent minded thought told him he needed to get it trimmed. He would probably let it grow out.

"I still don't think you lied, Sherlock. It's not possible. I've seen you do it so many times, your deducing. You knew things no one else could. No one could have told you those things. You were so clever... You helped so many people and there is no way you could have faked it all. Remember when you faced the Cabbie? I was there. When you saved me from the Chinese Gang..? When you faced Moriarty in the pool...

"Sherlock, I was there when you grieved over Irene and when you panicked over the hound. I was _there_ Sherlock. How dare you suggest that it wasn't real? How _dare_ you?"

He took a shaky breath and closed his eyes.

His hands reached up and he fumbled with the zipper on his jacket.

"When I watched you jump, I felt helpless. I couldn't do anything to help. I couldn't stop you. I couldn't save you..." John pulled his jacket open and reached under his jumper, pulling out a navy blue scarf, stained in blood.

"I had to beg them to let me keep this. They wouldn't let me have anything else." He said, fiddling with the scarf. Then, very softly, he murmured, "I've worn it every day since then, using it as an anchor. It keeps me safe and grounded when I want to give up.

"But I don't think I want to stay grounded anymore..." He picked himself up into a kneeling position, winding the scarf around a bouquet of fake flowers. They had been laid down there by Mrs. Hudson.

He set down the bouquet in front of the grave and then retreated.

A couple minutes later, Sherlock approached the grave. He saw the scarf, reaching up to touch the one around his neck before he could stop himself. The one that John had, was actually a fake. Sherlock had the original on him.

He had bought a mimic of it, so he could keep his favorite scarf, and only he would be able to tell it apart. His scarf had an addition thread on the end, making it completely unique.

He knelt down and swiftly untied the fake scarf from the bouquet of flowers, muttering. "Don't let go of your anchor just yet. There will come a time when you will need it." When he was finished, he stood up and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he ran.

Sherlock ran as fast as he could, taking every shortcut that was physically possible. When he reached the flat, he quickly moved to the back, where he began to scale the walls.

When he found the right window, he pulled himself into his old bedroom. It was all so familiar, except for the odor of John which clung in the air. He paused briefly, just so he could take it in, in silence. Then, his hands moved up to his neck, where he removed his scarf. He walked over to the bed and set it down on the pillow, pulling his collar up.

The door downstairs opened and he froze. He could hear the ex-army doctor's feet pounding up the stairs and he moved quickly. Unfortunately, the empty violin case was in from of his foot and he sent it toppling to the ground.

* * *

John was just arriving home when he heard the thump. Immediately he knew, someone was in Sherlock's room. He quickened his pace up the stairs, pulling out the pistol he now carried with him everywhere. He ran as quickly as he could and threw open the door.

For a moment, he was stunned. The room was empty and at first it looked undisturbed. Then John saw the toppled over violin case and the scarf. Quickly, he approached the bed and picked up the scarf. There was not a trace of blood on it.

"Is this some kind of sick joke?" He asked, noticing the opened window. "Is this some kind of sick joke!?" He ran to it, finding the street empty. It was as if no one had been here.

Still, there were obvious signs of a break-in and John had returned that scarf to it's original owner.

_This one is a fake_, he thought. _It's too clean. There's no blood._

* * *

_**Author's Note: I'm not exactly sure what methods are used to fix a broken violin but I did my best to make sure it was accurate. I apologize if it's not.**  
_


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock!**

* * *

The next week went by very slowly and John thought he was going insane. He was trying to continue on with his daily work, but it was steadily growing harder. Sarah had to send him home after a particularly bad surgery, which his hands continued to shake. The man he was operating on had unruly curly hair and it reminded him of the man strange encounters in just that past week.

On his way home, he was witness to another. It was near Baker Street (he walked to work), where he saw him, or thought he saw him. He saw a glimpse of Sherlock in the corner of his eye. When he faced the figure, it began to retreat, but it still bore the image of Sherlock and John had to pursue it.

"Sherlock." He called, his voice coming out as an unfamiliar croak. He ran faster, but so did the man he was running after. He pushed past strangers in his rush, not daring to stop and apologize, for fear he'd lose him. "Sherlock!" He shouted, much louder.

They were on opposite sides of the street, but John was catching up. He could take notice of the way the man's hair fell in dark curls. But just as he was about to cross the street, a double decker bus drove by and the man he was chasing disappeared.

He stopped in the middle of the busy street, ignoring the honks of the cars who had places to go. He could have sworn Sherlock had been there, but now he was doubting his sanity.

Finally, a loud blaring right in his ear jolted him out of the trance he had been put in, and he moved out of the street. It was time to pay a visit to his grave again.

* * *

_Sherlock was drained. He was tired of running, tired of hiding, and he hadn't slept in a week. He wanted to continue following John, but he needed to seek some advice, and after that close encounter, he couldn't risk it._

_So instead of following John to the grave, he went in a different direction. He walked to a small flat on the outskirts of town, entering without knocking. He then went into the living room and saw down, waiting. It was unoccupied, but he knew someone would be there soon._

John approached the grave with a disheartened expression. "Sherlock..." He muttered, leaning on the grave for support. He knew he was going insane and he wouldn't be able to take this much longer. He was driving himself crazy and he didn't know how to stop it. "Sherlock... I-"

"_Sherlock." Irene Adler strolled into the room, her hair cascading in wavy tumbles down her back. "Didn't you die?" She asked, sitting across from him, crossing her legs._

"_Didn't you?" Sherlock said in reply, putting on a mask of nonchalance for the moment._

_Irene smiled and inclined her head. She was one, out of two, who knew that Sherlock was alive. She had been informed by Sherlock himself a couple weeks ago. If she hadn't have known, she would have stayed out of the country. Now she lived fairly close to Baker Street._

_The longer they stared at each other, the more Sherlock's mask slipped. He was in emotional turmoil and he couldn't hide it any further. Especially not if he was going to seek advice._

"_Tell me, what happened?" Irene asked, leaning forward, a friendly concern in her eyes._

"_He saw me..."_

"I saw you." John began, looking at the grave that he had already memorised. His voice no longer carried the capability of being strong. To him, this was worse than Afghanistan. He had gotten far too attached.

"I keep seeing you wherever I go. At work. In the grocery store. In my dreams..."

"_You follow him everywhere?" She asked, shocked._

_Sherlock simply nodded._

"I see you when I close my eyes, and when I open them you're still there."

"_Don't you realise how foolish that is? Someone could have seen you."_

"_He saw-"_

"_Exactly!"_

"I can't take you off my mind and it doesn't help that everything I see is connected to you."

"_I can't let him out of my sight for too long. I'll go insane."_

"The flat."

"_You're going insane, anyways."_

"My work."

"_More so."_

"All of London..."

"_Do you remember what you told me, months ago?" She asked._

"_I suppose." He replied._

"I see you everywhere and I can't have you..."

"_You're losing this game, Sherlock."_

"_This isn't a game anymore, Ms. Adler."_

"I need you, Sherlock." His voice was shaking.

"_You really do love him, don't you?" She asked, watching him carefully. A year ago, she wouldn't have thought him capable of love. She knew from the start that he cared for John, but she had never suspected that he could love this much._

"Please, come back to me." John muttered. His shaking hands were caressing the stone as if it were Sherlock's face. He wished it was. But it wasn't.

"_Yes." Sherlock replied. He was sick of denying it. He loved John Watson more than anything in the world and anyone who couldn't see that was an idiot._

John stood there for another hour, lost in thought. He allowed his mind to wander further than before and he lost all control of his senses.

He didn't notice the ice cold breeze as it ran goosebumps down his arms and back. He didn't notice the howling of the wind as trees bent to its will. He didn't notice the blonde haired man who watched him from a hundred yards away.

* * *

"Good evening, John. To what do I owe this visit?" The voice came from a man surrounded in shadows. They were in a small, crowded office. The man sat behind his clustered desk, where an uneaten piece of cake sat.

"I want to... talk." John replied, standing awkwardly in the door.

"Come, sit." Mycroft Holmes gestured to the single seat in the front of his desk. John approached slowly, taking in the older Holmes' appearance. To a stranger's eye, he would have looked particularly normal, but it was just these features that showed John just how off he was.

His usual gelled back hair was awry, having not been cared for in at least a few days. His eyes, which sagged from the lack of sleep, were barely containing the strain this had left him in.

John sat, instantly regretting his decision to come. He had wanted to talk to someone about it, but he hadn't known who to turn to. Mycroft was the only man to come to his mind. But he realized it was a bad idea, as they now sat for over ten minutes in complete silence.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come." John finally said, quickly standing up.

Mycroft didn't say anything in response.

John left in a hurry.

* * *

**I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and didn't cry as much as I did when I wrote it. Much thanks to everyone who has followed it!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I Do Not Own Sherlock!**

* * *

"I remember, one night, you told me you didn't have any friends." John Watson was sitting down, leaning against the grave in defeat, picking at a defenseless leaf. His head hung down and his eyes were soulless, while his movements were choppy.

"I had heard that before, from many other people, but I truly couldn't believe that someone could be so alone." The leaf fell to pieces in his lap. "The next morning, after that... you told me that you really only had one friend. That was it. One... single friend. Me."

He leaned his head back against the stone, sighing deeply. "My first thought was 'What a sad, lonely life...' I couldn't help myself, and my first thought was 'I hope I don't turn out like that.'" He sighed again, running his hand across his face, his fingers lingering before they fell back limply into his lap.

"It was later, much later, when I realized I had already turned out like that. I'm an ex-army doctor. Any friend I had died in combat. I was alone. And then I met you and you changed my life."

He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath.

"You took me on adventures, introduced me to people. I went out on dates. Compared to you, I looked like a social butterfly. But I was anything but... You only had one friend? I was the same. You were my only friend, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't want to listen anymore. It was getting increasingly difficult and he wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep, despite the fact that he was far from tired, and he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep even if he was. Still, it was the only way that would calm the storm of thoughts that were raging through his mind.

He turned to leave, but Molly Hooper was there to stop him. She grabbed his arm, shaking her head. "Stay, Sherlock." She muttered, unable to tear her eyes away from the damaged soldier.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, glancing past Molly, back towards John.

"These words were meant for you to hear."

Sherlock grimaced, before he began to make some response to that. However, before any words could leave his lips, John began to talk again.

"I had only one friend, Sherlock. Now, I don't have any."

Then John lost it. His composure broke and any trace of strength was gone. He buried his face into his hands, no longer able to stop the tears. He could not, for the life of him, get Sherlock out of his mind. He saw him with his eyes both closed and opened. He heard his voice all the time. He thought of him at the most random times and he knew he could never be happy for a long period of time.

It seemed like all of this hit him at once, which made it so much more worse. The tears came faster and heavier, and his sobs grew louder.

Sherlock, who could no longer take this, wrenched his arm out of Molly's soft grip. "I'm leaving." He muttered, not even waiting for the girl to catch up. With a fleeting glance at John, she had to run after Sherlock to catch up.

John continued to cry for what seemed like hours. He had shut off everything except for his torn emotions, which were exhausting. It wasn't long before he had curled up into a ball and fallen asleep on Sherlock's grave.

An hour passed and a silent male approached the sleeping Watson. He wore a hard expression, but something like understanding leaked in his eyes. "John Watson. You and I are in the same boat."

* * *

**Sorry it was very short this time! Very sorry!**


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